


Of Fëanor and Nerdanel

by allonsytotumblr



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Absolutely nothing sad at all, F/M, First Meetings, Meet-Cute, My tiny baby children they are so small i just want them to be happy, Prophetic Visions, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Sword fighting as a metaphor for sexual tension, There is no sadness in this fic, Young Fëanor just wants to get laid ok guys, Young Love, Young Nerdanel may also want to get laid, but not necessarily with him, in more of a general sense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-01-30 10:45:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12652041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsytotumblr/pseuds/allonsytotumblr
Summary: A collection of one shots of these two before all the sadness. Chapter two is the new one.





	1. Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> I have been posting these individually, but I decided to put them in chronological order. If you have any requests, let me know and I'll write at least 1,000 words about these two doing whatever you want.

In a wild, remote corner of Aman, Fëanor rounded a curve in the road and saw- finally- Nerdanel, Mahtan’s daughter, walking further up the road, her brilliant hair unmistakable, carrying only a light traveling bag.

He had been trying causally to meet her on one of her journeys for weeks now, but his knowledge of her travels had been scarce, gleaned from eavesdropping, and questions posed to other forge apprentices. So far he had been unsuccessful, not knowing the places where she journeyed well enough, and becoming hopelessly lost, or not being able to locate here even at the correct destination.

Of course, it would have been far less difficult to speak with Nerdanel at her father’s forge where Fëanor had the joy of seeing her almost daily, but there he could think of nothing to say, and decided that it would be better if they chanced to meet somewhere else.

And now, the beautiful forge maiden with calloused hands- he knew this last detail because in one of their few interactions, she had placed her hands around Fëanor’s to show him a technique. It was thrilling although he had been distracted from her actual lesson.

Unfortunately he found his lack of conversation starters persisted, even outside the forge. The thought of an actual interaction was still terrifying.

_No,_ he told himself. This is ridiculous. He had not come all this way, to simply follow her at a distance. He must think of something to say.

_Hello,_ possibly. Yes. He could catch up with her, greet her, and then comment on the weather- nay not the weather, but he will make some intelligent comment. From there he can inquire where she travels and name it as his destination as well.

Fëanor could offer to accompany her or better yet, if she asked him...she might, after all it would be a polite gesture.

He increased his pace, preparing to speak to her. His heartbeat quickened as well- how can a conversation be so difficult- he need not greet her from close range, he can call out, and she will turn around…

But as he was about to speak, Nerdanel strayed off the path. Ahead of her, the road turned sharply to the left, taking its walkers away from the sheer cliff straight ahead. Beyond that the ground falls away and far below lay the sea, smashing against the cliff’s base and retreating over and over again.

Instead of turning with the road, Nerdanel walked straight on, approaching the edge of the cliff. She stopped, set down her bag, removed her shoes, and with no inhibition at all, jumped gracefully into the water below.

She must be mad, or attempting to die, Fëanor thought as he ran up the remaining distance of road between them, and peered over the edge of the drop. The fall did not seem as far as he had thought previously, and Nerdanel had not jumped to her death, but rather landed safely and was now treading water. She had done this for enjoyment?

“Are you alright?” He shouted down at her. It is not how he imagined their first meeting, though now he admired her all the more for her bravery.

“Yes!” She pushed her wet hair out of her eyes, smiling; she was smiling up at him. “I often jump off from this point. It is quite safe, you should join me,” she offered.

The cliff edge is sheer and Fëanor saw no way down. “I- you mean jump?”

“I told you, it is quite safe!”

He hesitated. On one hand he could join Nerdanel,and she had asked him, which seemed very promising. This was a perfect opportunity to meet her, and yet, the drop was not that far, and yet it is not that short either…

Fëanor has never done something like this before, having never been presented with a compelling reason to hurl himself off a cliff. But if he does not jump, she will regard him as a coward, and that thought was more abhorrent than any momentary discomfort he might experience.

He set down his gear and unlaced his boots- it is not that far- and stepped to the edge. The water glinted below him, splashing against the rocks.

_Oh gracious lady Uinen, he prayed. Save me from death or grievous injury, I beg you._

And he jumped. The fall is terrifying. He fought the urge to flail his arms, as he plummeted through the air. Hitting the water was hardly better; it felt firmer than water had a right to be. The salty liquid choked him as he plunged deep down into it, mercifully avoiding any rocks. For a second he swore that he saw a women’s face in the bubbles. She winked at him and disappeared.

_Thank you, lady of the seas._

He surfaced, spitting out water, as the rush of adrenaline receded. Nerdanel was watching him, with the look of someone trying not to laugh. “It gets easier after the first time, I assure you.”

And swimming over to Fëanor, she stuck out her hand, saying, “I am Nerdanel, and of course I know who you are. What brings you out here?”

They shook hands- hers is calused as he remembered. Before Feanor could answer with something suitable, she continued, “I am not traveling anywhere in particular, but this is such a beautiful place and I wished to explore it.”

This presented a problem; Feanor could hardly say that he was doing the same, but inspiration struck him and he replied, “I did not intend to come this way. I fear I am slightly lost. But if you know these parts well could you possibly assist me?”

“Of course. Where is your destination?”

Feeling quite pleased with himself, Fëanor named a town about day hence, and Nerdanel said that she knew it well, and she could show him the way.

They swim to the thin strip of shore. There is an steep path climbing up the rocks, not visible from the top. The climb seemed easy to Fëanor- she did not seem to mind his company, and he had not done anything too embarrassing, and now they had at least a day to spend together. It does not matter than he has no business at said town; he will come up with something.

From that day forward, the prince and the explorer were friends, and journeyed to many destinations together, yet only after they were wed did Fëanor reveal what part he had had in their first meeting.


	2. Observing

Hands were incredibly detailed, as an increasingly annoyed Fëanor was learning. He was sculpting today, and his task was to carve a pair of hands. Hands are terribly hard to shape, and he feared that he has chipped away too much of the marble, and yet he did not want to have begin again, so he tried to ignore this.

His hand will not have fingernails either- the thought of chiseling stone into ten transparent curves was far too daunting. Hopefully Mahtan will not critique this. Some people do bite their nails after all.

And his half brother was here, which added to his annoyance. Fingolfin had to be here, in the forge, his forge, well not Fëanor’s forge, but more his than Fingolfin’s who is intruding on Fëanor’s work today because he was, “interested in your crafting, brother, as you spend so much time here, and I wonder what draws you,” or some nonsense. While the reasons that Fëanor had chosen an apprenticeship away from the palace, instead of private lessons within the palace, were twofold- initially because it served to keep him away from his step family and then because it allowed him to be in the company of Nerdanel almost everyday, he had no intention of sharing either sentiment with Fingolfin. 

And Mahtan of course had allowed him to come and watch, as if he could have turned him down without seeming rude. Fingolfin sat in a chair next to Fëanor, his presence a detriment to his already less than successful sculpting. At least Mahtan had mentioned to Fingolfin that Fëanorwas one of his best pupils, although his current work seemed to the contrary.

“Are you going to add fingernails?” Said Fingolfin, as Fëanor set the hand again down, trying to find an angle at which it looked good.

“Yes, eventually. Obviously it is not finished yet.” Fëanor felt his nerves tearing themselves apart. “Surely my work cannot be the only one interesting to you. There are other apprentices here, go observe one of them instead,” he added through clenched teeth.

“Alright,” replied Fingolfin, not seeming offended. He was so unfailingly nice , which Fëanor hated as it made his behavior towards his step brother so much less justified. And yet he continued, ignoring his small flashes of guilt.

“Who here would not mind me watching their work?” 

“I do not know-”

“Perhaps her,” he heard Fingolfin say. Fëanor continued to focus on his work hoping that Fingolfin would just go and bother whatever girl he was talking about. Or not bother- Fëanor was sure that bother, judging by the amount of staring and unusual amount of girls who kept passing by Feanor’s work table. Honestly, no one ever gave Fëanor this much attention, not that he wanted it, but in the interest of fairness…

“Fëanor? I said, do you think that she would mind if I-” This time Feanor did look up and saw the she in question. He felt his blood freeze in his veins. Why, out of all the apprentices, why did Fingolfin have to choose Nerdanel, Fëanor’s best friend, and the object of his completely silent affections that mostly consisted for Feanor staring at the back of her head as she worked, and occasionally saying awkward things. Nerdanel was his friend, and he jealously wanted to keep her company only for himself. Fëanorbegan to say that yes, Nerdanel really would be bothered, but Fingolfin had already gotten up and walked over to her. 

Fëanor watched, tormented, as his step brother introduced himself, complimenting her work. She too had been set to sculpting a hand, but hers was beautiful, the fingers slim and graceful- with long curved fingernails as well.

Fingofin had introduced himself, and now they were shaking hands. Why did Fingolfin have to be so amicable, and good looking, and- a new horrifying thought struck him- what if Nerdanel should be charmed by him? No. The possibility was too ghastly to consider, and yet it weighed heavily upon Fëanor’s mind as he completed his carving.

He could hear their conversation. Fingolfin was talking about Nerdanel’s piece, “...and it holds a myriad of interpretations, because if placed palm up it implies some kind of supplication, but with the palm down it represents something more sinister, like a disembodied hand or…” Well of course Nerdanel’s work was good , this was not exactly some earth shaking revelation that Fingolfin had stumbled upon, Fëanor thought bitterly. He had often said as much himself, but Nerdanel had never called him, ‘my lord,’ as she was doing with Fingolfin now. Of course their friendship was much more informal but… this was torture. Why was she smiling at Fingolfin so much? This surely must be more than the amount of smiling required by social courtesy.

 The worst part was that Fëanor did not believe that Fingolfin knew his capacity to charm others, (“What do you mean she is in love with me, I only said, ‘good day’!”) His step brother in all likelihood thought that he was only being friendly.

Fëanor must do something. Anything. He was finished with his work for the day, if not proud of his creation, and he was free to go. He could go over there and tell Fingolfin this, and he will have no excuse to stay since he had come to watch Fëanor after all. This unfortunately meant that Fëanor will not get to speak to Nerdanel much, he had not spoken to her at all today, but this was the price to pay in order to get Fingolfin and his stupid shiny blonde hair away from Nerdanel.

He stood up, at once feeling self conscious about his forge clothes. They were well worn and covered in minute flecks of stone from today’s work, while his step brother was infuriatingly dressed in well tailored garments, not having to worry about the grit from crafting which got all over the sculptor. Nerdanel worn the same type of clothes as Fëanor but she looked perfectly at home in them. She carved stone more than he did and thus her arms were nicely toned.

He approached Nerdanel’s workspace. Though they had been friends with her for so long, Feanor still felt giddy and nervous around her. He had thought that these feelings would fade with time but apparently not. “I am finished for the day, if you are ready, we may leave,” he announced, breaking into their conversation. Feanor prayed that his step brother would agree and they cold go quickly.

“Feanor!” Said Nerdanel, “I did not see you at all today, and you are already leaving?” She had noticed that fact that he had not spoken to her, which meant that he was in her thoughts possibly on a daily basis, even if they did not talk- how thrilling.

Less so was Fingolfin, who Fëanor had briefly forgotten all about when Nerdanel spoke to him, saying, “Oh, you two know each other?” He meant it as a throwaway remark, but Fëanor’s heart sank, not for the first time during this day. He had never mentioned Nerdanel to his step family, not because she was not important, but precisely because she was a significant part of his life, and he did not want to share her or the times they spent together.

“Yes, we have been friends ever since Fëanor began studying under my father,” Nerdanel replied flatly. Her unspoken question: And in all that time, he has never once mentioned me? hanging in the air.

“Ah, you must be the gorgeous and talented artisan Fëanor talks about so often, I thought that you might be, but I could not recall your name- forgive me I am terrible with them,” said Fingolfin smoothly. Before Fëanor could process what had just transpired, Fingolfin said that he would go and thank Mahtan for allowing him to visit, and left them.

“Fëanor, and do not dare not answer me, did you honestly tell your family I was talented-”

“Yes.” Vala forgive him, Fëanor had thought it and told her quite often at least, if not his step family.

But she was not done with him yet, “- and gorgeous? ” Yes, why had Fingolfin felt the need to add that adjective in, he wondered.

“I...possibly, something like that,” he answered hurriedly. 

“Well, what a stunning revelation, I never knew that you cared!” She was teasing him, and enjoying it immensely. All this was Fingolfin’s fault. 

Trying to change subject, Fëanor cut in: “And I did not know that you favored golden hair.”

“What?” She truly seemed confused, not rising to denial or even blushing. Well. Perhaps they really had been having an ordinary conversation and Fëanor’s jealous mind had only imagined any attraction on her part. It would make sense. He had never seen her show interest in any youth before now at least.

“I meant- nothing, never mind." 

Shaking her head Nerdanel replied, “You are so strange sometimes, Fëanor, honestly.”

Seeing his step brother coming towards them, Fëanor went to meet him, leaving behind a very bewildered Nerdanel. But better to be thought strange than to have her fancy Fingolfin, and thus he was in higher spirits than he had been all day as he walked back to the palace. The walk seemed longer in his his step brother’s company, but at least Fingolfin was quiet.

As much as Fëanor hated unnecessary conversations with him, he had to know why Fingolfin had saved him back in the forge with Nerdanel. “Why did you tell her that I had said those things when I never had, when I never even mentioned her to you?” He asked bluntly

“It seemed like the polite thing to do,” replied Fingolfin. “If there was a reason you never mentioned her, she need not know it. I am sure you did not mean to offend her.” Well, of course Fëanorhad not.

“And why did you have to say that I said she was, ‘gorgeous,’ it was unneeded, and now she may think that I-”

“The worst idea that she will get is that you fancy her, which you obviously do,” Fingolfin answered. 

“Whatever you are getting at, it is incorrect,” Fëanor said coldly, feeling his blood freeze in his veins.

“You repeatedly glanced in her direction throughout the day,” Fingolfin began.

“Oh how astute. It is actually possible to look at things or people without-”, but his step brother was not finished presenting the damning evidence he had collected.

“I watched you two together after I went to thank Mahtan. With Nerdanel you look happier than I have ever seen you- not that the bar is set so high. You might have actually even smiled at her.”

Fëanor was silent. To observe such small details and to understand what they meant in relation to a person’s heart was beyond him. Fingolfin had guessed right. Fëanor hated that he of all people should be first to know, not Nerdanel herself, and then his step family when their engagement was formally announced.

“It is nothing to be ashamed of, she seems very well suited to you,” offered Fingolfin as Fëanor continued to brood.

At least, he thought well of Nerdanel, that was something. Fëanor tried to think positively, “It is not none of your business, and I warn you to stay out of it.” He tried come up with something to threaten Fingolfin with and, not knowing him well enough, failed.

They reached the palace and Fëanor could finally depart his step brother’s company. Once alone, he examined the events of the day. The more he reflected, Fingolfin’s comment had not been horrendously bad. Nerdanel had not seemed bothered by the fact that Fëanor had praised her to his family, on the contrary, she had seemed rather- pleased? Yes, she had teased him about it but nicely so, and the inescapable fact remained that it had been because of Fingolfin's quick speech. His action had been unnecessary, and certainly uncalled for considering Fëanor’s treatment of him since- well forever really. Yet he had done so anyway.

 While Fëanor would not go so far as to actually thank him, he supposed that he could make some effort to act slightly nicer to his half brother for an amount of time equal to Fingolfin’s action anyway.


	3. Sleeping Arrangements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is not Feanor's fault that there is only one bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE BED SHARING SO MUCH. IT IS MY FAVORITE TROPE EVER.

Their sleeping arrangements were absolutely, positively not Fëanor’s fault. There was no way he could have foreseen that the cave Nerdanel and he were planning to spend the night in would be unable to be found, a cartographer’s faulty calculation, not his.

He was equally blameless for the weather; in the absence of a cave they decided to sleep outside, a plan which had succeeded had it not rained, a torrential downpour which soaked the companions along with all their supplies.

And when they had managed to walk through the terrible weather to a rather shabby inn, no actions on Fëanor’s part had resulted in the fact that the landlord, woken up by their repeated knocks, could only offer them one room- with one bed.

Fëanor could have told the innkeeper who he was- for surely, wet and road worn he did not appear as a prince of the Noldor- and used his high station to secure better accommodations, but he knew that Nerdanel would be furious at this churlish behavior, and he accepted the given room without complaint. The bed itself was not so bad, it was the fact that it existed stubbornly in the singular, rather than the plural.

He offered, of course to take the floor, but Nerdanel asked him why he would do such a thing, as their bedrolls are soaked through from the rain, and this would be quite unpleasant and unconducive to sleep. Surely he was as exhausted as she?

“Well yes,” he answered, “But we are not, I mean that it is not proper that we should share a bed.” While journeying in the wild they often sleep side by side, but on separate bed roles, not together-

“I care not, Fëanor!” She answered, climbing into the bed. “Insist on being prudish if you wish, but do it silently so I at least may rest.” She pulled a pillow over her head, ignoring him, and proceeded to go to sleep.

Fëanor deliberated- silently as she had asked. Finally, mostly in the interest of proving her wrong- he was _not_ prudish, he laid down, as far away from her as possible.

But sleep was harder to come by than he expected. Firstly, Fëanor had not realized how much one moved when falling asleep: turning over, adjusting of blankets, things hardly noticeable when he slept alone, are now seized on by his mind, and Fëanor is sure that his every action disturbed her. He resolved to stop shifting altogether, and commanded himself: sleep.

However, he was not only bothered by physical discomforts. Surely, surely, it would be easier to sleep if he was sharing a bed with a female relative, or an unrelated maiden, with someone whom he did not have decidedly romantic feelings for. But he is sharing a bed with Nerdanel, and thus his feelings are there- unwelcome, ridiculous- nonetheless.

He had loved her, with all the fiery passion of youth ever since their first meeting, when one of his first days apprenticed to Mahtan, as he worked, a red haired maiden, some senior apprentice, came up to him, scrutinized his project, and announced, “Your technique of chiseling is faulty.”

“I can assure you,” Feanor had replied, stung, “that my technique is perfectly adequate.”

“No, if you were to hold the chisel in your hand thus,” Nerdanel took the tool from him and demonstrated a different hand hold, “You would achieve much more leverage.”

“See?” And she smiled at him archly, and departed, leaving Feanor embarrassed, determined to match her quality of work, completely in love and wishing to see her again. While he was young then -and still is- he knew his own mind, and he knew even then that he wanted to wed her or none.

After listening to the conversations of other apprentices, he learned her name- Nerdanel- and that she often undertook journeys. Thus Feanor contrived to encounter her by chance on the road, and finally after several fruitless attempts, he finally did. He asked if he could join her on her sojourn, she agreed, and they were friends from then on.

But friends and only that. He still did not speak his true feelings, and would never do so. Not because of their differing stations; he cared not that Nerdanel is a smith’s daughter- he would gladly wed her tomorrow, in front of all the Noldor if she wished- but because if he were to admit his feelings, and speak of how brightly his spirit burned for her, if she did not feel the same, he could never face her again. He resolved to keep silent unless she gave him some indication that she might feel the same. 

 _Sleep,_ Fëanor told himself again, and eventually he did. What little was left of the night passed uneventfully. He woke, with aching muscles from his lack of movement. Feanor had half hoped that Nerdanel would wake him, and passionately declare her love for him, and he would take her in his arms and- well in any case, naught of that sort happened.

Nerdanel stood before the room’s mirror, combing out her hair while considering out loud the best way to reconnect with their planned route.

Fëanor was only half listening. Instead he was distracted by her hair- she so seldom wore it loose, which he understood of course, long flowing hair is not practical when working in a forge- but now it tumbled down her back in a tangle of red, gleaming where Laurelin’s light caught it.

“You have very beautiful hair,” he stated, transfixed.

“Hah!” Nerdanel replied, not turning, still combing, “More like nigh impossible to detangle.”

“Nay, truly, it is so unique. I have seen none like it and it brings to mind of tongues of fire, intertwined with spun gold. I understand that it is not sensible that you wear it down while smithing, but it is still lovely.” He stopped speaking and debated the relative merits of never doing so again.

This drew Nerdanel’s attention, and she ceased combing and gave him a very odd look. Fëanor might praise her handiwork- and he had done so often in the past- but she herself he has never spoken of. “I...thank you, Fëanor. That is most kind.”

Nerdanel resumed speaking of their journey, and Fëanor attempted to cover his embarrassment- _Tongues of flame? Spun gold? Who would say such things?_ \- by collecting their supplies. They resumed their journey- the remainder of which was pleasantly free from inclement weather- and she never again mentioned his compliment, not even to tease him with.

She had forgotten the incident, he hoped fervently. And yet, he did notice that she left her hair unbound more and more often, when she visited him at the palace, or when they met at her home, even on their journeys. And some part of Fëanor dared to hope.


	4. Visions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nerdanel has a surprising premonition. She definitely does not have a crush on Fëanor though.

Nerdanel sprinted after Fëanor, her legs and lungs burning with the exertion. But it was no good; he had far too much of a lead on her, but she would never simply give up, no matter how beaten she knew she was. They were traveling near the sea, and seeing the large rock formations that jutted out near the edge of the water, Feanor has challenged her to race up one. She had not thought that it would be this difficult. It was larger than it had first looked, and of course he had a head start, not having waited for her reply before taking off.

Finally she climbed to the summit, not that long after he had, she thought, not so long that it warranted him shouting, “Again you have failed to best me! What a horrible defeat!” at her, which he did.

Gasping for breath, she began to reply, when suddenly she ceased to see Fëanor and the bright landscape around them. What she saw was not so much with her eyes but with her mind. Nerdanel had always possessed foresight, for as long as she could remember she had known things, mostly small things such as where lost objects where, but visions of larger future events were not uncommon either.

This was a vision certainly, but this time, for the first time, the subject was Nerdanel herself. She was dressed in fine clothes, much finer than any she now owned, and stood with Feanor in front of a large crowd of nobles from all three houses. They were to be wed and their marriage was being blessed.

And before Nerdanel had time to be incredibly surprised- wed to Feanor!- the scene changed and she was plunged into a whirlwind of premonitions. She saw happiness and children, so many children. Three of them shared her hair color, Nerdanel’s mind noted distractedly. Their childhoods- seven in all- flash before her. There was more, jewels with the light of heaven captured inside, darkness and fire, shouted and binding words, sorrow untold and finally a great doom, beyond what she could possibly understand.

And then her second sight faded as quickly as it had come, and she was once more standing on top of a rock sticking out of the sea. Mere seconds had passed. She could barely breathe, but no longer from physical exertion. Her mind raced, trying to hold on to what she had seen, even as bits of it faded like threads of a dream slipping away the next morning. She tried to push away the horrifying parts. Those, she wanted to forget.

Fëanor, noticing her lack of response to his provocation which ordinarily she would have never left lie, said, “Nerdanel? Are you alright?”

“Yes fine, I-”

But he continued, “because you looked very odd just now-”

“I am fine,” she snapped, wishing for him- her future spouse , her mind whispered- to be quiet so she could process what she had just seen. The first thing that shocked her of course was that she would have wedded Feanor. Of course they are friends, best friends she would admit if pressed, and of course she cared about him very deeply, but not in a romantic sense, surely not. She had never even considered the possibility of them as sweethearts, and had he? Nerdanel glanced at her companion walking on the road beside her. Feanor had certainly had never said anything to that effect. Of course even if he had possessed feelings for her, Nerdanel was not sure that she would have realized it.

She was perceptive in other matters, but in love…love was not something she had ever given much thought to. Until now of course where it seemed that her fate was to marry, and marry into royalty.

She does not fancy Fëanor; she does not! And yet in what Nerdanel saw, she was happily wed to, and very much in love with him. Nerdanel did not like being told that she will develop feelings she does not currently possess. Everthing would change if she fell in love with him.

When she managed to stop thinking about him, she began instead to think of their children. Seven! No one she knew, or even heard of had any where near that number. Even couples with three children were the subjects of jests behind their back about their burning physical passion for each other. What would people say, all of the Noldor, about having more than twice that many? And the amount of intercourse actually required to produce such a great number- Nerdanel felt her face grow hot. If she were to marry, she would of course want some children, and she did not think that she would exactly mind the creating of them either, but to think of herself and _Fëanor…_

He was not bad looking, she would admit that at least. Certainly his coloring, the contrast of dark hair and gray eyes, was striking, his body was slim but muscled from working with stone and metal, and there had been times when she had looked at him and seen what the other female apprentices in her father’s forge admire so much about him. But Nerdanel was an artist and when she noticed these things, it was in a purely objective sense.

Fëanor and Nerdanel were close to the end their journey, and she thanked all the Vala for this. She would not have been able to stand being around him and only him for days and nights on end, as they sometimes were on their longer sojourns. It was not his fault, but she still would rather not see him again for quite some time. Accursed second sight! She did not speak to Feanor and answered his attempts at conversation as shortly as possible, as they walked towards civilization, their path in the wild remerging with that of settled lands. The silence that they finally lapsed into felt awkward, grating on Nerdanel, but she could think of nothing to say. Telling him of her vision would only complicate things further.

They reached the palace first; she could hardly wait to take leave of him and return to her work table in the forge. She had missed it even before this vision, and now her work was the only thing that would clear her head. Surrounded by stone and flame she would be able to think properly again.

“Farewell,” Nerdanel said as they approached a back gate of the palace. She did not wait for him to answer and turned away, more quickly than was polite, but she did not care.

“Nerdanel, wait. Have I offended you in some way?” He was so earnest, and she suddenly felt awful that he thought that her behavior was on account of him.

“No, honestly. It was lovely journeying with you, as always,” she answered, trying to reassure him. “I used to only like traveling alone until I met you. You are not such a bad companion.” She finished hastily, hoping he would not wonder why she was expressing so much unusually nice emotion towards him.

Fëanor smiled at her, looking quite pleased at her words. “Thank you, you are wonderful too, I- anyway, farewell.” He walked away quickly, leaving her smiling as well despite her uncertainty about the future swirling about in her head. You are wonderful. Nerdanel felt her heart beat against her chest in an odd manner that she had never experienced before.

It was not so unpleasant and she thought that if she was doomed to wed and have seven children with Fëanor, she could perhaps get used to that idea.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come! Let me know what you guys want to see! More sexual tension? Or should they get together next? Whose POV? Let me know!!


	5. Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nerdanel wears a dress, Fëanor is very chill, and they practice...some stuff.

“Mother!” Nerdanel shouted, her tone a mix of outrage and anger common among adolescents of all races. She did not usually shout like this but now she was faced with a crisis beyond anything she had dealt with before: her dress. It was not that she hated dresses, as a whole, but this one....this one was absolutely outrageous. While it was a nice deep green color, and the material was fine- plain green silk Nerdanel guessed; she had no knowledge of these things- it was flawed in that it was completely backless and sleeveless, exposing her arms and shoulders, and leaving the entire area from her neck to her lower waist bare. The only thing keeping this dress from falling off entirely were straps attached to the bodice that tied around her neck.

There must have been a mistake at the seamstresses. No one would design a dress like this. She will tell her mother and they can send it back, although she had no idea what she will wear, as she had no other formal dresses.

Time has passed since her vision of marriage and children with Fëanor, and since then Nerdanel had put her mind in order quite nicely. Yes, she had seen one possible future outcome in a thousand, but there was no reason to believe that this one would come true anymore than scores of others. When she sat before an uncarved block of stone, the material presented infinite possibilities of what it could be carved into. Such is the future. She was not in love with Fëanor and would never be- that moment at the palace gate was a bizarre singularity and she did not count it. Should she develop feelings for him- she will not- then Nerdanel will accept the fate that she saw, but for now her vision was locked away in a drawer in her mind. And she had much bigger things to worry about now, namely her outfit.

The door opened and Nerdanel saw her mother, dressed in a gown- with a back and sleeves. “Good, you are dressed already and it seems to fit well,” she said not at all fazed by her daughter’s ensemble.

“No, look,” urged Nerdanel gesturing to the straps and then turning to reveal the back, or rather lack of it.

“Yes,” replied her mother, far too calmly. “It was the seamstresses idea, and I was quite taken with it. It is very eye catching, do you not think so?”

“How could you do something like this without telling me?”

“Well as you declined to attend any of your actual fittings after your initial measuring, I did not think that you were interested in what the dress looked like.”

“I was not but- I wanted a normal dress, not this!” So much of her skin, her freckled skin is on display. Of course in the merciless heat of the forge she was wont to wear sleeveless shirts knotted just below her ribs, but this was different, this was her first ball, and people will be looking at her… “Please,” She tried one last attempt although her mother was equally as stubborn as she, and t was fast becoming apparent that her heart was set on Nerdanel going in this dress. “Do not make me wear this.”

“Daughter,” her mother answered with a horrifying tone of finality. “I know that you do not wish to come out in society-”

“I do not!” Said Nerdanel, a fresh wave of panic rising inside her.

“And I will not force you to do so,” her mother continued heedlessly, “But you are no longer a child. You are a young women, and young women do not go to balls to stand on the side of the room unnoticed. And wear your hair down,” she added, departing.

Nerdanel’s fate was sealed. She considered wearing her hair up, just to spite her mother, but her mass of red curls will serve to distract from her near nakedness. Besides she liked her hair down. Loose, it looked liked- what was it? Oh yes, _spun gold_. Not that she cared what Fëanor or anyone else thought of it.

She finished brushing her hair- how did it get so tangled when it is up all day?- she departed, her room thinking that if she ignored her shoulders and back maybe everyone else will too.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She looked like Yavanna, Fëanor thought, catching sight of Nerdanel standing in the line of guests. This was her first ball, as she was slightly younger than he and had only recently passed the age that deemed her old enough to attend grown up gatherings.

She was arrayed in green, and her dress was cut to reveal her muscular arms. Her hair was down and contrasted nicely with the dark verdant color. Despite that fact that she seemed extremely uncomfortable with her outfit, and surroundings, she was still beautiful. Nerdanel was beautiful, in such a way that he never tired of looking at her. Though her had memorized her appearance, and mentally traced every curve of her face, Fëanor felt the same wonder every time he glanced at her, as he had the first time they met.

“You, your dress, it is very-” he began, as he her. Of course he could speak eloquently to every one of his guests, but her.

“I swear that if you say anything I will kick you in the shin here and now,” Nerdanel threatened, misunderstanding his intent as to tease, not to compliment.

“That would not be very ladylike,” Fëanor answered, trying not to laugh. “Try to enjoy yourself. These events are not as bad as all that,” he added, as she rolled her eyes at him.

He could not spend as much time as he wished by her side, he was the host after all, and when the dancing begins, custom said that he could only dance with her once, his right hand placed against her lower back, his fingers grazing her bare skin. To remain her partner for multiple dances in a row would signify some interest.

He watched Nerdanel- in her dark green she was easily visible in contrast to the lighter colors worn by many of the other guests. She did not get many invitations to dance, which pleased and infuriated Feanor in equal measure. On one hand he was glad that he had no rivals, that no one else seemed to fancy her, and yet there should be scores of youths as smitten with her as he was.

Nerdanel managed to disappear in the whirl of dancers, and he suspected that she had left altogether, and gone out into one of the adjacent gardens. She loved them for their balance between wild nature and manicured upkeep. Eventually he got away, and discovered that he was right, finding her at the beginning of one path. She was simply standing, not walking, and he thought- he hoped- that she was hoping he would find her.

“Neglecting your duties as a host is not very courteous,” Nerdanel said when she caught sight of Feanor. But she looked thrilled that they have both escaped from this social occasion.

She was correct, but no matter, Fëanor was not regarded as such a fine ponential husband. While many scheming parents wished for their daughters to marry the prince, the maidens themselves were not so enamored with him. Fëanor has overheard one of them remark to another that, “The prince is always covered in soot.” Which was quite false, that had only happened once and it had only been a very slight amount on his cheek. And the only young woman whose opinion he cared about was often covered in forge dust herself, although not tonight.

“And neither is threatening to physically assault your host, as you did earlier,” he rejoined, gesturing at the path, “Shall we?”

The walk spiraled outward, the neat grass punctuated by pavilions or topiaries. “Give me your coat, I am freezing to death, and there is no one out here to impress,” Nerdanel commanded as they walked further away from the party. What a shame that he did not count as someone to impress, but he did like the thought of her wearing his clothes. Obligingly, he removed his brocaded dress coat that he wore over a shirt and trousers. It was heavy with brocaded and he had always found it rather gaudy, yet on her it will look beautiful- of course.

“Thank you, I guess that my mother would rather that I not die of cold than look impressive.” Said Nerdanel. She does not elaborate on this remark and turned their conversation elsewhere. They walk towards a small gazebo, at the side of the path. Its walls are does in a lattice design, its door created a closed hexagonal shape. Fëanor guessed that it was unoccupied, as the evening was still very young, and the guests still occupied with their dancing. He pushed over the door and saw that he had guessed wrong. The pavilion was occupied, filled with two other young people, who were very physically involved with each other, and very much not wishing to be disturbed. They were both still clothed and horizontal- well, seated- but from how entwined they were with each other, it looked as though they did not wish to be either of these things for very much longer. The pair jumped apart as the door opened, their faces changing from ordinary embarrassment to absolute horror as they recognize Fëanor.

Nerdanel took charge of the situation, saying, that the pair was absolutely fine, that no they do not need to leave, the prince was only giving her a tour of the gardens, and they will be leaving now, a thousand apologies, before dragging him out and shutting the door. Fëanor and Nerdanel hastened away, until they were far enough out of earshot that they might laugh freely.

“They were unmarried,” said Nerdanel, who must have gotten a closer look at the amorous pair. “But they will not be for long if they carry on in such a manner!”

“Why did they have to choose that gazebo, I shall never be able to sit in there again…”

“Perhaps they just realized their feeling for each other, or their parents never allow them a moment alone, or-”

“Well, it is still revolting,” if that couple was Nerdanel and he, they would never be such a spectacle, certainly not in places where they could be caught out so easily.

“Oh, I do not know, it looks rather fun, does it not? Nerdanel replied. “Kissing, I mean.”

“I...have never considered it,” he answered, all though that was not true, he had not thought at all about it until he met her, and then he had thought of it quite a lot.

“I wonder, how does each person know which way to tilt their head? It would be hard for them tell, with they eyes closed. Suppose that they should both turn the same way and bump noses?” Said Nerdanel. He shrugged. Clearly she has thought more of the mechanics of this than he had. She continued, “It is rather frustrating- it would be so helpful to know these things beforehand, so that when it actually mattered, one could be well practiced already.”

At this Fëanor looked at her sharply- did she mean that she wanted to kiss someone? Who?- but her face held nothing more than curiosity about the subject at hand. And suddenly, feanor was struck by an idea of unmatched cleverness, of cunning not seem since the creation of the world, or he thought at least.

“I guess that we could try it,” he said, casually, though his heart was in his throat lest she should suspect anything.

“What, why?” Nerdanel said, sharply. And she looked at him in the way she sometimes did when she thought Fëanor was looking elsewhere, as if she was trying to see into his soul and discern something in him.

“It is just as you said,” he replied smoothly, and wondered where this hitherto undiscovered confidence was coming from. “One may practice for a recitation or for a foot race, and indeed, one would not enter into these thing unprepared. So why not practice kissing as well?”

Nerdanel peered at him for a moment more, than appeared ordinarily curious again. “You are right. Let us.”

Fëanor felt his confidence stutter a bit, as she led the way to a nearby stone bench. He had half expected her to turn him down. They have walked quite away from the palace and there was no one around. “Well,” Nerdanel said as soon as they were seated. “Hold still.”

“You sound like a doctor, stealing her patient for a painful procedure, not like a lover-” he began, but at that moment she leaned forward and her mouth cut off his speech.

She had slightly misjudged the angle at which to tilt her head and their noses did collide softly, grazing each other briefly, before she tipped her head her head a bit more. Kissing was soft, he decided, as he felt not only her lips on his, but her shoulder as well, pressed against him. As Nerdanel leaned further forward, her hair swung across her face and brushed his. It was pleasant, and combined with the kissing itself, the whole experience is wonderful, though he had nothing to judge it against, Nerdanel was kissing him, so of course…

He recalled that since they both were supposed to be practicing, he should try something too, but before he could work up the nerve to tangle his hands in her hair as he wished, Nerdanel pulled away. They had been at it for a rather long time, and were both out of breath.

“Interesting,” Nerdanel was not even blushing and spoke with the air of a scientist studying her results. “I shall keep this in mind in future times.” He did not reply, she had kissed him, if only for practice, and he was too thrilled by this to think of a response.

They walked back, retracing their steps. The ball was not yet ended, and Fëanor would dance with her once more this evening, if he could.


	6. Sparring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nerdanel tries to deal with her emotion and Fëanor teaches her how to fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, of all the tropes out there, probably my number one favorite is if they’re fighting and there’s sexual tension, then it's like I need to lie down, hooooooo boi. Do you have prompts for these two??? Send! Them! To! Me! Thanks!

Nerdanel had feelings for Fëanor, and she was absolutely furious about it. She could not exactly pin down when she began to feel this attraction to him, but she knew that now she was forced to deal with these new emotions, such stupid things…

She would not call it love, she did not want to, the very thought of that terrified her, but she did enjoy being around him very greatly- that was nothing new, they had always been _friends-_ and he was the one of the only others she had ever met that loved the forge in the same way that she did, and his mind was brilliant, and their journeys together were very pleasant, even when they travelled in silence. But previously Nerdanel had never felt as she did now, such as when they worked at smithing together, Fëanor speaking of the method he was inventing for the creation of gems, and Nerdanel realizing that she had not heard anything that he had been saying because she was distracted by how close he was and the fact that he had removed his shirt due to the heat of the forge.

And to think that she once had felt nothing for him! To think that she had slept in the same bed and had easily fallen asleep. To think that she had even kissed him- and only for practice!

Nerdanel hated that whenever she saw Fëanor she had both the urge to physically fling herself at him across his worktable- after carefully moving aside whatever project he was working on of course- and the urge to run away and hide and never see him again.

But however pleasant it was to imagine the first scenario, she did not know how to bring it about. In the forge Nerdanel was quite capable at shaping stone and metal, but not hearts. The ways of flirting, of attraction, of seduction, were utterly alien to her. And even if she did become familiar with them, she still doubted that they would work on Fëanor. He did not seem to notice any other maidens, not those who apprenticed with her father, nor those belonging to noble families.

She would tell Fëanor how she felt, she vowed. Nerdanel was used to speaking her mind on all other matters and to conceal such a thing as this felt akin to lying. She will tell Fëanor, but just not today.

Today being a day, where all the other apprentices had left, and her father, having important deliveries to make, had left her to close the workshop. And now the forge’s fires were all put out and the debris swept off the floor. Fëanor had remained behind to help her, which he did often although the tasks were not hard, and she did not really require the assistance. While they worked, Fëanor spoke of his progress in the art of swordfighting, taught to him by a tutor. He quite enjoyed it, he said.

Nerdanel forgot sometimes that he was also a prince, not only her friend, and that he lived the life of royalty, with private lessons and such.

“You should learn how to use a sword,” stated Fëanor.

“I have no time for such lessons,” she replied. Many other apprentices in the forge spoke highly of creating and wielding their own swords, something about the process of using a sword that they themselves had made and able to perfectly shape the balance of their weapons. Nerdanel had always loved swords, and knives, and spears, all metal weapons really, but only their crafting and not their actual uses.

“No need, for that, I can teach you now” he said, standing up. “Come on, it will be fun.”

“Oh well, with you as my extremely experienced teacher, how can I refuse?” Nerdanel agreed, both because she was bored, and because, to be perfectly honest, she wanted to remain in Fëanor’s company for as long as possible- which annoyed part of her greatly but was true all the same Since there were no more tasks to be done, and they were talking of nothing particular, he would leave if she told him that she had no interest in fighting. Was this flirting? She could do this.

And why not learn? Nerdanel had never made a sword, and it she knew how to use one, she would be able to her skills in that area of crafting as she could forge her own.

“What are we to use for swords?” She asked.

“Any sort of wooden rod,” Fëanor replied, and Nerdanel’s mind jumped to the walking sticks her father kept by their door. He liked to carry one on his travels- he had not taken it today as he had not gone far- and he had carved one for her to use as well, although she prefered to travel light, unencumbered any unnecessary items.

She fetched them. They were sanded smooth, preventing splinters and the one she now held came up her her shoulder, slightly too long for a sword. Feeling like a child playing at being a warrior, she stood in the courtyard outside the forge, awkwardly holding her ‘sword.’ Fëanor began to instruct her, first on her stance, (wrong,) then on her hand grip (wrong), and then back to her stance which she had changed while concentrating on the position of her hands. And this was not even the actual fighting part, only how to stand.

“When do I get to actually stab you?” Nerdanel asked, looking at him but remembering not to move the rest of her body so he would not tell her to move her feet apart, _again._

“You may try,” Feanor answered, and she attempted a swipe at him which he dodged easily. “Do not look where you want to hit, it shows your intention,” he called and she gritted her teeth, vowing that she would not do it again. He picked up the other walking stick and began demonstrating basic moves, counting the beats like a dance. “One,” and she swung left. “Two,” and right. “Three,” and she went back to the left, but hitting lower now. “Four,” and down on the right.

Nerdanel swung at air at first, and then he stepped in, and they parried each other's strikes slowly, she stepping forward and attacking on his command, and then with him on offensive, moving towards her. They go through this again and again, and the movements became easier with repetition. Fëanor explained other things as well: how to put power behind strikes, and methods of disarming an opponent.

“I understand,” she said, and did, mostly. This was proving to be more interesting than Nerdanel thought it would be, and she wanted to stop practicing slow versions of the moves and see what true fighting felt like.

“Then- on guard!” And she moved towards him, trying to remember what she had been learning, trying to execute them quickly, which avoiding his strikes. It was incredibly tricky, as she attempted to hold all of these things in her mind at once. Again she was struck by the semblance to dancing and the necessity of control over the whole body.

Fëanor was going easy on her and not using the full extent of his skill, of course she knew that, yet Nerdanel still felt quite proud when she at last  managed to drive him back against one of the walls in the courtyard. “Surrender!” She shouted, leaning forward, pressing her stick harder against his, forcing it back towards him.

They were quite close, she realized, suddenly noting their position, she having pushed him against a wall and closed the distance between as she pressed her advantage. She imagined them with the absence of swords, as lovers, pressed together, their arms wrapped around neck and waist, and she kissing his neck and- _honestly, was this was love did to your brain?_

“Yield, I have won!” Nerdanel commanded him again, jerking her mind back to the present, glad that her flushed face and breathing could be attributed to their sparing and not to any of her ridiculous feelings.

“Fine! I yield, before you kill me with your very dangerous wooden stick.” Nerdanel grinned and stepped backwards, lowering her weapon.

“Well done,” Fëanor said.

Nerdanel felt embarrassed, as she always did when he complimented her, and said, “I suppose, for my first fight. Will you continue to teach me?” Strands of her hair had fallen out of her braid and she pushed them behind her ears. She remembered that this gesture was one that she oft seen other maidens do when they were attempting to enamor certain youths, although those girls were not covered in sweat when they did it. _Oh well._

“Yes, I will gladly instruct you.” She could tell whether Fëanor had noticed her gesture. At least he was willing to tutor her.

“Thank you.” The conversation paused and she did not know how to revive it. This happened often now, with him. She, who could always think of things to say. “It is late,” she offered, glancing up at the sky over their heads.

“Yes- I should be going,” he said, and Nerdanel cursed herself silently, for to imply that Fëanor should leave was not her intention at all. How did people get others to fall in love with them? How! When she could not even speak what she wished?

Fëanor handed back his borrowed walking stick and said goodbye, he will see her tomorrow, and Nerdanel said that yes she would, goodbye. As he walked away she thought, finally, of something clever to say and before she could consider whether it was too brash she had called out, “I enjoyed sparring with you, Fëanor, it is always nice to have you up against a wall!”

Fëanor paused briefly, and without turning around, said, “I enjoyed it- sparring- too.”

He walked away, and Nerdanel was sure that he was smiling- she knew that she was at least.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys when I was writing this I thought about that meme, “I studied the blade,” and I almost choked.


	7. Imagining Things

There was no specific Vala who governed love.

It was Yavanna, said married couples, the giver of fruits and of children too, it was believed. Others, in the midst of chasing there beloved would say that it was Oromë, the lord of the hunt, of passionate determination. It is Nienna, the unlucky or scorned in love would say, for love is sorrow and pain, mourning for things never to be. Those who were newly, mutually in love would say no, that it was Nessa, the dancer, for love animated the limbs and made the soul free and light.

Nerdanel wished that there was a clear answer so that she could alternatively pray to and curse whoever had so cruelly smote her with this horrible, unwanted love for Fëanor, Fëanor of all people to be in love with! Perhaps it was not the work of a devious Vala, perhaps she herself was to blame, although she certainly did not want to feel this way, and could not see what he had done to deserve this or bring it about. As it was, she prayed to all of them to deliver her from feeling like this. 

And yet she did. One moment she and Fëanor were friends as usual, and then there had been some ghastly change, and she had begun to be attracted to him. Everything about him, his looks, voice, and mannerisms, things that she had never noticed before were now beautiful and endearing to her.

And it was so stupid, the way that she became so distracted at the motion of his slender hands as he described his latest project. So stupid, and yet she was stuck with these feelings, causing her blood to heat and her mind to cease functioning whenever he was around. Her pale skin blushed easily, which had never been a problem before since she was at ease with Fëanor before, but now she constantly felt like her face was on fire.

Nerdanel had once laughed at those who lost their minds in love, vowing that if she fell in love she would be the same, not completely witless, and now…

Now here she was, expending so much mental energy on both their interactions and analyzing them afterwards, realizing after, too late what foolish things she had said. Nerdanel thought of him constantly. Even when she worked in the forge she was not free; his work table was behind hers, and she wondered what he was doing most of the day, she wondered if he ever looked at her, but since she was in front, she could not turn her head back too often without being obvious. She took to braiding her hair as intricately as she could, for while she could not safely wear it down, perhaps Fëanor would notice this.

Or perhaps he would not, Nerdanel thought, on their journeys as they lie sleeping, on the same ground, close enough to be tantalizing to her, but not close enough to mean anything. Perhaps this was all in her head, what she thought she had observed, the remarks that could be flirting, or could be nothing. She was imagining things, maybe, maybe not. Fëanor was so difficult to read, especially when her judgement was clouded by passion, and perhaps his actions that Nerdanel thought might possibly indicate interest in her was crafted to fit what she wanted it to be.

She thought about her looks now- another new feeling. Nerdanel knew that her features were not considered pretty, but this had never troubled her before. As an artist she knew that beauty was an elusive concept, and that something considered gorgeous by some was judged nothing by others. Nerdanel liked what she saw in the mirror well enough, but did it match what Fëanor thought of as beautiful? She often was grimy with soot, or sweat, or stone dust, and could not imagine that he found her beautiful then. She had no idea what he even found attractive, they never talked about love, or marriage, or anything to do with romantic interests before, and she was too shy to bring it up now.

Even her art was effected. The shapes that her besotted fingers created dealt with love too, but luckily the were too abstract for anyone to guess at their meanings. Except her, she knew what they meant, and it annoyed her that they looked nice, because she did not want her creativity to come from infatuation. 

Being in love was horrible, it was awkward and worrisome and time consuming and stressful. Nerdanel wished that she could chisel away her feelings with one blow, an erroneous bit of stone removed from a statue, leaving it perfect. But these emotions were messy, and could not be removed, and they infuriated her.

It was not all absolutely terrible though, she admitted grudgingly. Today, for example, Nerdanel was posing for him, as he wanted to create her likeness in clay for practice. Clay was a more forgiving medium than stone, although she preferred the latter as it provided a smoother finish, and did not require firing in a kiln, where it could crack before painting.

Fëanor using her as a model did not necessarily indicate interest in her, Nerdanel had decided eventually, for apprentices in the forge often used their friends as models, but he did touch her face once, tilting her head to a slightly different angle, his fingers warm against her cheek, leaving a trace of clay behind, and the breathlessness she experienced as a result of this could not be described as bad, exactly.

Fëanor then brushed her hair away from her neck, it was lossed today, and she thought it either made her look like a fire spirt or like a wild animal, hopefully the first. She shivered slightly, and unfortunately he noticed and jerked his hand away at once, mistaking her movement for disgust, and sitting back down to resume sculpting. Fantastic, Nerdanel thought, now he thought that she did not want to be touched, and there was no subtle way to tell him otherwise. She was very bad at all of this.

Nerdanel was quiet as she sat. Though she liked being around him more than ever, her mind was now empty of things to actually say. At least his silence was because he was working, not out of boredom or disinterest with her. The project was only a bust, head and shoulders, and she was glad that he had asked her to model for him first, so it would not be odd if she asked him to return the favor. Then Nerdanel could study Feanor’s face to her heart’s content, without drawing suspicion, although she was not sure how well she would be actually be able to concentrate on sculpting. It was a clever plan nonetheless- her wits were not entirely gone.

“There,” said Fëanor, setting down the tool he was using to make indentations in the clay. Nerdanel, being an artisan herself knew that no work was every done the first time the artist declared it so, and that he would continue to make alterations, but she hopped off her stool anyway, stretching her back which had been still all the time that she posed, and circled the table to look. It was a very good likeness, not just in the physical details and proportions, but in the way that this shaped bit of clay, molded to look like her, seemed to capture her spirit. “You will be better than me at sculpting, if you keep producing work like this.”

“Do you feel threatened now, o greatest sculptor?”

“I said if, if you keep producing this kind of work,” she said, the ‘greatest,’ causing a warm feeling in her chest, even if it was only said in joking banter and untrue besides.

Instead of a comeback, Fëanor shrugged and said, “I have been working on something, it is a bit odd but- would you like to see?” An odd change of subject, Nerdanel noted. Did Fëanor want her to stay? Did he wish to be in her company because he craved being around her, like she did him? Or was she just…imagining things, Nerdanel thought again, for the thousandth time.

Whatever, if he had meant to do that if had worked and she was interested. “Yes, I do.” Fëanor swept a portion of his table clear, spread a paper, and began to mark it with a stick of charcoal. The paper under his hands began to be covered with sweeping curves, dots, and titled vertical slashes above straight lines. Some of them bore a resemblance to the letters of the alphabet, but others were utterly foreign, like nothing she had seen.

“It is an alphabet, well the beginnings of one anyway. Like Rumil's but my own.”

 

“You just made up letters?” It had never occurred to Nerdanel that such a thing could be done but was that not how all languages and writing began?

“Some of it comes from Rumil’s of course, but I added letters, and tried to devise methods to ease the writing and prevent confusion.” It was beautiful. Any word could be written in this script and look graceful, no matter its meaning.

“I love it,” Nerdanel said. Inventing a new letter system must have been difficult, but it was also ingenious and such a Fëanor thing to do. “Show me how to write my name please.” He demonstrated, writing the word so quickly that is seems as if he had written it many times before, but that could not be- he must just know his invention well. Her name was rendered in a neat line of loops, some of them dotted with other symbols above. “So which letter is which?”

Fëanor wrote the corresponding letters under his, explaining the placement of the vowels over the proceeding consonants. “Now you try,” he said, handing the charcoal stick to her.

Nerdanel took it, but these markings were unfamiliar and she did not know which strokes to make first. Her version looks like his, more of less, but it was more laborious to write. "Here," Fëanor said, examining her attempt. "It is easier if you put the vowels on over the letters as you go, rather than adding them at the end. He reached over her hand with his and guided them both across the paper. Nerdanel was very concious of his arm around her, for she had been writing with her right hand and he was on her left, so of course he had to reach around her to guide her hand. However practical explanations did not slow her heart's much increased speed.

"What are you going to do with this system of writing?" Nerdanel turned her head as she asked this, but found that they were almost nose to nose as Fëanor bent over the paper and dropped her gaze at once. 

"I do not know. Maybe nothing."

"You should not let it go to waste like that, incorporate it into your forge works maybe."

"Well, I have shown it to you so it is not wasted." 

"You could do so much with this, imagine if all of Valinor used this!" Nerdanel continued, missing his remark.

"Who would?"

"I would. Will you teach me all of it?" Their hands became covered in charcoal as he did. It was easier than using ink, but messier. Nerdanel noted that she still like the look of Fëanor's hands when they were covered in charcoal, and maybe he thought the same about hers, but no, her hands looked the same as always, pale, and freckled, with an added layer of black grit. 

Fëanor told her to practice the writings on her own, and she did. Alone in her room she wrote, 'I love you, I love you,' over and over, and their names together with no space in between. Afterwards, she burned the paper, embarrassed at her folly. They curl up into ashes; her feelings for him remain.


	8. Varda's Lights

The night was cold and peaceful. All was quiet, as most denizens of Aman were asleep at this hour. Nerdanel had been as well- emphasis on the past tense. Some noise had woken her, a tapping on the glass of her window. Fëanor. He motioned at her to open it.

Nerdanel was still half asleep- too tired to be excited by the possibilities presented by being woken by the very youth she fancied in the middle of the night- and opening the window to see what he wanted would require sticking her arm out from her pile of blankets. But who could say that if she ignored him he would go away? Reluctantly, she pushed away the blankets covering her shoulders, and reached over to unlock and raise the window. Luckily it was well oiled, and did not squeak as she pushed it up.

"What is the meaning of this? At this hour?" She hissed at him, her annoyance not great enough to risk waking the rest of her household.

Fëanor looked at her, not at all troubled, and said, "Come with me, I have something to show you. Trust me, Nerdanel, it will be worth losing some of your sleep- and it is not that cold," he added, anticipating her next question.

"What are you speaking of? Can it not wait until morning?" Her hair must look terrible, Nerdanel realized belatedly. She did not know what caused it to get so tangled each night and yet it unfailingly did. She pulled her covers over her head, thinking perhaps she could just ignore him.

"No, it cannot wait; for what I have to show you can only be seen at night."

"I have already seen the stars, Fëanor. They have been in existence for quite some time now," Nerdanel responded, her voice muffled by the blankets.

"Not the stars, something else. It will be glorious I promise," said Fëanor, and then he had the audacity to actually reach through her window and prod her shoulder. "Come!"

"Fine," she was at least curious now. "I will come." Nerdanel pushed back all of her blankets and felt her cocoon of body heat dissipate as she rose from her bed and put on every coat she could find. Dressed she crawled back across her bed and climbed through the window- with not too much difficulty- and jumped down to join Fëanor.

"Now close your eyes," he instructed. Being more awake now, Nerdanel had begin to think on what he meant by asking her to sneak out in the middle of the night, and now she thought fleetingly that he was going to kiss her. But no, when she closed her eyes and heard Fëanor say: "This way. It is not far, and the road is fairly flat." He did take her hand at least, if only to guide her steps. She knew well the road they were walking on, and yet could not think of anything on it that was so spectacular, or could only be seen at night, on this path.

Nerdanel felt the road slant upwards beneath her feet as they climbed upwards several paces more. "Here," said Fëanor. "Sit down." She did so, opening her eyes, and seeing nothing but an unremarkable landscape. The ground was cold but at least not wet with frost. Fëanor had unfortunately let go of her hand, although unsurprisingly, as they had reached their destination. "I see nothing," she began, wondering what kind of drawn out jest he was leading her on.

"Look up, Nerdanel," he said, pointing. And then she saw what Fëanor had dragged her out of bed to show her, and the cold and loss of sleep faded away, as she beheld the illuminated sky. Not lit with stars, although some of them shone above as well, but with other lights- bright ribbons and swaths of color lit from a source she could not name. These lights were different from that of the Trees, more remote, yet equally as beautiful. Vivid green was the predominate color, yet Nerdanel's eyes picked out streaks of yellow, so pale that it was almost white, and purple, blending with the black sky.

Most were stationary, but as she continued to stare, awed, one section arced upwards and snaked downwards to for a new pattern. Their appearance was transfixing. It made her feel tiny, and yet as if she was the center of the world. It was glorious, and so unexpected, and hers to share with Feanor as the rest of Aman slept.

After an eternity of gazing skyward, or perhaps only a few moments, she heard Fëanor ask: "Do you like them?"

"Yes!" Nerdanel dragged her eyes away from the lights and back to him. "They are so extraordinary- what causes them?"

"I do not know. They only appear in the winter and even then not too frequently here. I discovered a book astronomy that mentioned them, and I have been watching for them each winter night since."

"What are they called?" The thought that he had read of this, and immediately wanted to share it with her pleased Nerdanel immensely.

"Varda's lights. Perhaps they have something to do with the stars. If Varda knows she has not told."

"Beautiful," Nerdanel said again.

"Yes," agreed Fëanor, but he was no longer looking at the sky, his eyes were on her, and Nerdanel was distracted from celestial manifestations, and instead thinking of her unconfessed feelings, and of daring to go after what she wanted. Who. Who she wanted.

While she could never had done something of this sort during the harsh light of day, the colored night sky gave her courage, and without stopping to consider the horrifyingly embarrassing ways that this could go wrong, she leaned over and kissed Fëanor.

She expected that he would be surprised, or at least hesitate. Nerdanel did not think that he would immediately respond to her advance, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her closer, with a force that surprised her. Despite the cold, his mouth burned against hers, and she forgot everything else. There was only him and nothing else, until she was completely out of breath. Unsure if one was allowed to breathe through the nose while kissing- no, Nerdanel decided- she broke away reluctantly.

"Well," she began as her breathing returned to normal. "I am quite glad that you feel the same, or that would have been rather awkward..." Nerdanel felt thrilled that he returned her feelings, but had no idea how to voice this sentiment eloquently, but she felt that it was necessary to say something.

"Feel the same?" Fëanor said. "I have loved you since we first met!"

Nerdanel tilted her head. "But that was ages and ages ago; if you felt such then why did you not tell me sooner?"

"I did not think that you cared for me, in the same way, and I did not want to make things uncomfortable between us if that was the case- "

"Fëanor, you coward!" Said Nerdanel, although she followed this statement by kissing him again which rather took the edge off of her words. "And you would have been right, until recently, when I find myself, inexplicably, fancying you."

She thought that he would seize on the 'inexplicably,' but his tone remained serious."I am glad," Fëanor stoked her hair, the same open joy that she had beheld upon his face when he had crafted something successfully in the forge. "I am so glad."

Despite her wish to throw herself at Fëanor again- the previous kiss had been nice but she wanted more, she wanted- but some voice of reason not yet drowned by her desire told her that the king's son could not be wed on the side of the road, so Nerdanel contented herself with leaning her head against his shoulder. Thrilled by the night sky, and the fact that Fëanor loved her- loved, he had said loved!- that she felt that she could stay here forever. The display in the heavens was too glorious to go to sleep on and let the lights in the sky dance for no one.

"We should leave," said Fëanor, although Nerdanel guessed that he did not wished to either and she hoped that some of his reluctance was on her part, not only because of the sky. "Unless you wish to be completly exhausted tomorrow."

"Stay!" she caught hold of his arm as he moved to stand up. "I can be tired on the morrow."

"You who were so concerned about sleep when I woke you-"

"It is sleep that you want, then we could try my bed. I suppose it could accommodate two people, although there has never been occasion for that until now…" Clever remarks are nothing new to her, but this was different, this was flirting, unknown territory waiting to be explored.

Laughing, Fëanor stood, pulling Nerdanel up with him. They followed the path back, the two of them together like so many of their journeys, but not like the past. They were holding hands now and Nerdanel had never been more pleased with a new beginning.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, as Fëanor prepared to go into the forge, he too was equally pleased with how things had turned out. And yet he felt slight trepidation at what he was going to say to her today. While last night Nerdanel obviously had expressed her feelings for him, and there had been a quite a lot of kissing- now in the light of day he still felt shy around her.

Speak to her, he told himself sternly, as he sat before a block of marble, his assigned practice carving today. He cannot just stare at the back of her head all day, and so forced himself to walk over.

"Nerdanel, good morning," he said, trying not to shuffle his feet.

"Hello," she said glancing up He felt conspicuous, as if every other apprentice was noting their conversation and the new dynamic of their relationship.

"I am sculpting today, and I...er wondered if I could borrow your chisel, I need a smaller one. May I borrow one of yours?" It was a bad excuse to go talk to her, for he could have easily achived a finer chiseling by using the pointed edge of his own. Fëanor hoped that she would know that he really had just wanted to speak with her and did not care about sculpting at the moment.

"Here," and their fingers brushed as Nerdanel handed over the tool.

She was blushing Fëanor noticed, she was actually blushing- and it occurred to him that she could be just as awkward and nervous and new to this entire love thing as he was. This of course was ridiculous-she was perfect and amazing and had no reason to worry- however this gave him the confidence enough to say, "you look very beautiful today- as always."

Nerdanel muttered something about how he was being ridiculous, but she could not entirely hide the fact that she grinning, and so was Fëanor as he walked back to his work table, prepared to spend the rest of the day completely, blissfully distracted from his sculpting.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you everyone so much for your kind comments and kudos, they all mean so much to me.


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